


silverchest

by heartstringtheory



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, M/M, Pining, Relatively Canon Compliant, The True Name Curse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-24
Updated: 2019-01-24
Packaged: 2019-10-13 21:55:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17496089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartstringtheory/pseuds/heartstringtheory
Summary: "Seungcheol," says Jisoo. Count to three. Don't move.





	silverchest

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pyrophane](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pyrophane/gifts).
  * Inspired by [in wavelengths](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12810105) by [pyrophane](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pyrophane/pseuds/pyrophane). 



> (OP DOESNT KNOW WHAT COUNTS AS A REMIX) ok so basically i took the elements that really stuck out to me in in wavelengths and turned them up a notch and then ran with it. . .
> 
> the true name trope is classic trope where speaking someone's true (as decided by the rules of that universe) name gives you some kind of power over them. essentially imagine in wavelengths but somehow more repressed and unrepressed at the same time
> 
> love u . . . hehe
> 
> ENJOY (i hope) ( ´ ∀ `)ノ～ ♡

 

 

The bus ride to Cheonggye mountain was bumpy—Jisoo had knocked his head against the window and been left squinting in ambiguous pain all day, stuck in the stage just before a wink, ache all through one temple. At some point they had to get off and walk the rest of the way, make a wish at the temple, and decide how long to hang around. Now, walking back down the trail behind the local hikers is making Seungcheol’s knees hurt.

Stage names aren’t sticking yet. Two-thirds the members call him one thing and then abandon it halfway through when they remember to call him another, but they have to get used to it somehow. It’s trial by fire. He’s pretty sure Jeonghan does it just to get on his nerves.

Jisoo meanders slowly down the path four steps in front of him. The rest of the members had agreed to race back down the sloping path, last one back gets the seat over the wheel, no take backs. Along with Jeonghan and Junhui, Seungcheol’s taking the slow route—he’s already got achy knees.

“Are you okay?” Seungcheol asks Jisoo, taking three wide steps to catch up to him, watching him press two fingers to his temple and frown, pushing on the absence of a bruise. The expression leaves him in an almost-wink, slightly charming.

“Ah,” says Jisoo. “I’m fine—it’s just a little headache.”

“Are you sure?”

Jeonghan plasters himself to Jisoo’s back, grinning lazily. “You worry too much,” he says, airy. “Junnie could carry him down the mountain if Shua passes out and we need him to, right?”

“Right,” Jisoo echoes, biting down his laugh. Seungcheol supposes he hasn’t known either of them long enough to really understand what’s going on right now, so he opts to lapse into companionable silence, instead.

Jeonghan’s smile widens further, sensing an opportunity. “I bet if you start running now, you could at least beat Wonwoo back to the bus.”

Jisoo’s smile stretches from ear to ear, pulling like taffy pull. By then, Junhui had latched on to Jeonghan by the shoulder, and his cheshire cat grin completed an unholy trinity of people who are far too fond of pranks, Jisoo’s mischievous face idling in the center of Seungcheol’s vision.

“We’ll cheer for you,” Jisoo teases. Jeonghan waggles his eyebrows, egging him on.

It’s like contending with Cerberus, or troublemaking, minor trickster gods; the only way to win is to give up the fight.

Seungcheol starts running.

Jisoo shouts his name like a friend trying to embarrass another at a track meet, or somebody clapping too loudly at the end of a shittily acted school play. _Seungcheol_ comes pealing down the mountain, disturbing the relative peace and the quiet, too.

Seungcheol’s heart lurches, parsing out the physical from the auditory. An invisible rope pulls back on Seungcheol’s shoulder like the memory of a dream, slightly out of reach.Then, as much as now, Seungcheol feels like he’s doomed.

  


 

Seungcheol doesn’t know when Jisoo started doing it, really, though he still maintains a healthy suspicion it has something to do with a bribe from Jeonghan. The rest of the members bastardize his stage name into nicknames that become farther and farther removed from their origin until they’re barely recognizable at all, and then one day, Jisoo comes into his room, grabs him lightly by the elbow, and jolts Seungcheol out of the flashy PC game he’s been playing with Wonwoo. Jisoo’s reflection was a double exposure against the polygonal graphics, black and green and blue.

“Seungcheol,” he says, then waits.

Seungcheol pauses the game, feeling something inside him start uncurling like a fern. Wonwoo spams the chat with messages, threatening Seungcheol’s real life if he’s seriously taking a break right now and letting him virtually die. Seungcheol swallows. “Yeah?”

“Everyone’s arguing about dinner again and we need a tiebreaker. Meat or seafood? It’s your call.”

Seungcheol looks sideways at him, headset slipping off his ears and down around his neck, absorbing Jisoo’s face via the blue tinted glow. “Um...” he stutters, “I was thinking about chicken actually?”

Jisoo laughs, head tilting. “That’ll break it,” he says, straightening up. “Thanks.”

“Sure,” Seungcheol replies, mouth dry.

Jisoo lets go of his elbow, but it doesn’t bring him any sense of relief.

  
  


 

Seungcheol watches the choreography, his back to the mirror, leaning against the reflection of himself. He counts the beat against his thigh, cotton fabric to fingertips, nodding along. Normally when it comes to the dancing, Seungcheol’s happy to let Soonyoung run the show, but Soonyoung got pulled from the studio fifteen minutes ago by their manager. Something about time constraints, he’s guessing, or the shifting of deadlines. If it’s important, Seungcheol’s certain he’ll hear about it at some point, later.

For now though, Seungcheol just watches. He doesn’t know the choreo well enough to make the kind of nitpicks Soonyoung does, so he’s committed himself to minimizing the potential outbreak of unsupervised chaos rather than any attempt at maximizing synchronization.

The double gap in the spacing sticks out sorely, draws his eye. Then; behind the gap, Jisoo, normally obscured from Seungcheol’s own in-choreo vision, perfectly visible now, even in the dim and buzzing overhead lights.

Jisoo’s not their group’s best dancer by any definition, but Seungcheol’s got a problem. All he can seem to do is look and keep on looking, make desire a thing of motion, following the fragmented shapes and curving lines of Jisoo’s body, burning it into his vision like a long exposure of light. The song loops, then starts over. Seungcheol calls a break, blinking out of his stupor.

The formation disperses instantly. Chan turns the speakers off as everyone else heads for water bottles and bags, snacks and ratty towels. Seungcheol sinks against the mirror, straightening his legs out in front of him, closing his eyes, head tipped back. The dance studio always ends up a little stuffy, and proper oxygen feels a little hard to come by. The zoning out is easy. Habitual, even. He hopes Soonyoung comes back soon, so he can—

“—oups? Coups!”

Seungcheol startles, but can’t get a word out before Jisoo is edging his way into Seungcheol’s line of vision, offering him his water, _don’t say it, don’t say it—_ _  
_ “Seungcheol?”

Seungcheol takes the bottle, tension rushing out of his body like some black hole in the dark that won’t stop ringing. “Thanks,” he manages.

Jisoo smiles in a small way, takes a seat next to him on the hardwood floor. “What time do you think we’ll finish up?” he asks, filling empty space. He knocks his knee against Seungcheol’s lightly, then separates them again.

Seungcheol does the mental math, glancing at the clock above the door. “Before midnight, hopefully. Why? Thinking of slacking off?”

Jisoo laughs, stealing his water bottle back. “Are you going to stop me?”

“No,” says Seungcheol, and immediately regrets it when Jisoo’s eyes light up like firecrackers in delight. He knows better by now than to toy with Jisoo’s troublemaking side if he wants to get out of anything alive, but lately it’s like words are just falling out of him, rupturing bursts of magma from the volcanic chamber, bright red ooze.

Jisoo nods, sage. “I would never,” he says, straightening his posture like a prince getting his portrait taken. “Then we’d both be slacking off together.”

Seungcheol slaps his arm. “How could you?” he mocks, no bite. “Sabotaging your own leader. I should keep a closer eye on you, Hong Jisoo.”

“Are you two conspiring over there?” calls Jeonghan, coy, rolling over to wag a finger at them from where he’s laid out on the floor.

“Coups was talking smack about you,” lies Jisoo, sticking out his tongue.

Jeonghan cackles. Seungcheol stares at the side of Jisoo’s face, wondering if proximity is the thing that’s making him lose focus, like radiation poisoning—stay too close for too long and the world starts spinning without you.

Jeonghan tosses a pitying look at Seungcheol, the amused, unserious gaze familiar. “He’s got you wrapped around his finger, poor thing.” Seokmin and Minghao laugh, eavesdropping on the conversation.

If Jeonghan really knew, Seungcheol thinks, he’d realize just how much Seungcheol believes him.

  
  


 

Seungcheol only starts figuring it out sometime in the dead of winter. For a while he’s content at best and resigned at worst to believe he simply has a harmless crush on Jisoo—the kind that could be ignored for the most part, or indulged in, if he’s careful.

In a van on the way back from a magazine shoot, Seungcheol gets shoved into the back row with Jisoo, the third spot on the bench seat overtaken by a pile of outfits in crinkly plastic garment bags. Individual photos had ran late, and Seungcheol’s body aches in strange places; the arches of his feet, the small of his back, one knee after he put his weight on it all wrong.

Presently, Jisoo sleeps, for the most part, weaving in and out of consciousness as the van rattles over bumps in the pavement, leaning more or less on Seungcheol as the street lights roll across him. Seungcheol plays idly with Jisoo’s hair; the whole of it slightly stiff with product but fun to tug around a little bit, listening for Jisoo’s pleased exhale through his nose.

Ice crystals are forming on the window. Seungcheol lets his head fall atop Jisoo’s and closes his eyes. It isn’t the first time he’s been used at a human space heater, and it definitely won’t be the last. Seungcheol knows because he’s spent a long time watching Jisoo, putting the puzzle pieces of him together, trying to understand the way he works—

Seungcheol falls asleep. By the time he wakes up again, it’s his own face against Jisoo’s shoulder, knees crammed together, coat tucked neatly around him like a cocoon. The van rattles from side to side in the bitter wind, swinging the lucky charm hanging from the rearview mirror in the front seat. Jisoo cracks an eye, half awake, head tipped against the window from the way his body is accommodating Seungcheol’s weight.

Seungcheol sits up, flustered, tucking his hands between his thighs, feeling his stomach swoop from sheer proximity.

“Seungcheol,” Jisoo grumbles, barely there, tugging on his arm, cold enough to want the body heat back. The sound of his name is a two syllable punch, a hand reaching into his ribcage and twisting everything up. Seungcheol burrows back into the padding of Jisoo’s winter coat, warm all over, a fingertip passing through candlelight without ever getting burned. The contact has nothing to do with it, it seems.

In the low light, Seungcheol’s vision flickers like stop motion film.

Turns out Jisoo’s been watching him, in turn, for a while now, too.

  
  
  


 

Jisoo has him by the collar of his shirt, pressing Seungcheol back against his single bedroom door, the handle digging into his thigh. His mouth opens against Seungcheol’s, insistent and electric.

Seungcheol doesn’t know when this part started, or how he keeps ending up here like this at all, the timeline leading up to this point crushing together like a soda can underfoot in the 90’s movie of his life. One minute he was memorizing how exactly he should smile for a camera, just some kid looking sickly green in the reflection of the practice room’s hideously colored walls, and now he’s here, no more sure of who he’s supposed to be than he was then. If the time were a book, Seungcheol feels like at some point he flipped forward several chapters, or ripped out an important page.

Looking at Jisoo, it’s more like someone forgot to write the book entirely.

What Seungcheol does know is that he comes to Jisoo like a stray. It’s the art of asking without asking, letting himself in. Jisoo slides a hand up Seungcheol’s loose sleep shirt, palm wide and flat against the curved side of his ribcage, the stretch of the serratus muscles. Seungcheol breathes in deep and then holds the air in his chest, afraid of what noise he’s about to make, Jisoo’s hand ice cold, the sensation a confusing combination of ticklish and arousing.

Jisoo laughs, abandoning his mouth to pepper kisses along the line of Seungcheol’s throat. “You never change,” he sighs. Seungcheol can hear how the vowels form around his smile.

Seungcheol squirms, knotting his fingers into the hair at the back of Jisoo’s head. One thumb presses lightly against Jisoo’s temple. “That sounds like a bad thing,” Seungcheol manages, voice inching high, high, higher.

Jisoo’s hand skims around to the center of Seungcheol’s back, pressing against the knobs of his spine. Seungcheol should probably hate it more when Jisoo gets like this—but lately its the same as constantly navigating the space between the group and the company; it kind of drives him up the wall as much as he appreciates being trusted to participate at all. It’s not a particularly beautiful metaphor, but it grounds him in his place.

Jisoo just shakes his head. Doesn’t need to say his name. Doesn’t bother with a reply.

  
  


 

“Hong Jisoo,” croaks Seungcheol. It’s meant to be scolding, but it just comes out like the beginning of a much grander sentence, gets stuck in tar. “Don’t kid with me.”

“I’m not kidding,” Jisoo replies, though his habits betray him ever so slightly, smile creeping across his face. “I’m really not. Why would I lie about something like love? Seungch—”

“Don’t. Do that. Or lie. You’re bad at it, like, extremely. You can’t act at all.”

Jisoo leans back, but his eyes remain fixed on Seungcheol’s face. “I’m only kidding if you are.”

Seungcheol could strangle him. “That’s a horrible defense!”

“I’m only looking to save face, here!” laughs Jisoo. “It’d be embarrassing to be the only one who—well. After all this time.”

Seungcheol opens his mouth, then closes it. He’s lucky the recording studio they’re holed up in is free of insomniac musicians, still, this late at night. Jisoo’s sitting in Jihoon’s piece-of-junk producer’s chair, doll eyed and grinning. Seungcheol sits back down on the couch, realizing he hasn’t got jack shit to say. Reality isn’t sticking yet. He’ll probably be crying in five minutes.

“Seungcheol,” says Jisoo, the tilt of his smile elastic, aching like a bruise. Nobody calls him that anymore—like losing baby teeth; a part of him he never really thought he needed, has him running his tongue over the gap like a lapse in memory. The sound of it moves him in miniatures, down to the atomic level, shifts his heart one inch closer across the room.

For Seungcheol, falling into Jisoo was a lot like the race back down the balmy southwestern face of Cheonggye mountain all those years ago.

 

Once he started, he couldn’t really stop.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> leave me a comment or come find me on twt @hochitown or @hoshiologyPhD !!


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